


the persistence of memory

by iimpavid



Series: a violent tongue for violent deeds [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Modern Era, Performance Art, Sort Of, Surgery, aesthetic: no capitalization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid
Summary: in which our favorite maia dips his toes into performance art.





	the persistence of memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarebeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarebeast/gifts).



> the "surgery" referred to in the tags is some extreme body modification. the gore isn't described excessively, however, only mairon's reaction to it.

the gallery was a solid ten degrees cooler than mairon had specified at the event booking.

he wouldn't mind under normal circumstances but normal circumstances wouldn't have him smiling beatifically at potential-patrons naked under nothing but a black robe of clinging silk and his hair. (he had decided platinum would be the best-possible color for it and lightening it was a multi-stage process. tonight he would debut not only his evolution into a performance artist but, more importantly, his burning, bloody hair. it suited the theme of the evening all too well.)

lucky invitees milled through the displayed paintings, some of them already developing headaches from the harshness of the lights mairon had chosen. canvases were spackled heavy with oil paint in violent strokes. portraiture recognizable, after a fashion despite the gore, meticulous diagrams of living figures as if they were cadavers. no lack of saturation. they wound a maze, of sorts, around the central dias which itself was empty except for a hospital gurney.

it was all magnificent to behold.

or it would be if the air conditioning weren't on blast.

he could have his patron speak with the gallery manager but it might be more productive to do it himself. give the fool a lesson on temperature control in a more medieval setting, maybe--

"you can't possibly be thinking of going through with this."

mairon turned, grinned, as if he didn't mind manwe interrupting his musings. "i don't know what you could possibly mean."

undeterred, manwe held up one the ballots eager gallery staff were passing around. "you could go into shock." he didn't appreciate the surprise. his plus one, however, seemed much more interested in what might soon come to pass.

"i won't do anything that isn't democratically and fairly decided by the good people present this evening. besides, i pulled some strings and have brought in an actual surgeon. but enough spoilers. it's not like i'm some mad russian nailing his genitals to the road-- my work is actually interesting. now stop being rude and introduce me to your new friend."

"hardly new-- my brother, melkor. melkor, this is mairon."

mairon wondered, idly, whether melkor recognized him without the fishnets and body glitter. if he could snare him in the bathroom of the gallery-- guaranteed cleaner than the wolfsden's with the added benefit of a sofa-- then he certainly would. he extended a hand-- knuckles up. he was above such things as handshakes. (a shame that the night's aesthetic require he go ringless. even his fingernails were unadorned, clean, filed to points, unpainted.) "please, call me sauron. i can't go forsaking my stage name before i've given a single performance." melkor obliged him.

"sauron, then, a pleasure." he didn't break eye contact as he lifted sauron's hand, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. there was keen recall in his smile.

"tonight keeps getting better and better." the serrated edge of mania tinged mairon's words. "i do hope you remembered to vote." manwe opened his mouth to speak again, maybe to protest the content of the ballot, but a handbell ringing cut him off. "ah! that's my cue. if you'll excuse me, i need to retreat for a moment while they count the ballots. stage fright. you know how it is."

the audience had voted as mairon had known they would vote. they were people, after all, eager to see whether he meant to follow through and hungry for blood.

an attendant took his robe. his skin broke into goosebumps in the gallery's chill. his hair spilled from the edge of the gurney as he laid down. a taste of things to come. cameras were disallowed this evening. even the gallery's CCTV was off. only two things would capture the main event: the fallible memories of the audience, and the more-perfect (but still ever-changing) body of the artist.

he nodded up to Idril-- the soft-hearted surgeon needed his permission to draw the iodine-soaked sponge from his left collarbone in a perfect line down to his left ankle. the cut would be deep enough to scar and, if that weren't enough of a guarantee, when it was done it would be cauterized. idril had warned him, as if he had cared, that it would not be a smooth or swift process-- the body's tissues varied in thickness, there were arteries to avoid, the potential for muscle damage was omnipresent. and, she stressed, it would be horribly painful.

of course, mairon accepted no anaesthetic. why would he want to mar the experience?

idril put a hand on his shoulder to hold him still. his ears rang. distantly, he was aware of the presence of a nurse who would also help hold him down.

the scalpel only burned at first. deep through his chest cavity and up into his throat-- a blessed warmth he had missed the whole night or maybe his entire life.

pain followed in its wake. mairon gasped. idril, the imbecile, hesitated, her hand lightening on the scalpel a fraction. mairon didn't move a muscle but the fingers of his right hand clawed the sheet and the plastic mattress beneath it of their own accord.

then, miracle of miracles, idril regained control of herself and resumed cutting, bringing the line down the plane of mairon's belly. splitting his skin in glorious agony.

rather than scream or weep or shudder out a sigh, mairon began to laugh.


End file.
